I am having difficulty writing again. I think I allowed the writer within to lie dormant for so long that now, the part of me that writes is broken. Well, maybe not broken. Maybe just a bad bruise. Like one of those purpley-yellow ones, that's deep but not yet fully healed. I want to turn my feelings into words again, so I have an outlet that doesn't just involve mothering a toddler.
Don't misunderstand: mothering my toddler is the best thing I have ever done with my life, well and truly. But I used to be interesting. I knew about wine. I practiced and taught a lot of yoga. I saw movies. I read books. I showered pretty much daily. I have none of these things any more. I wake up when my son wakes up. I go to bed when my son goes to bed. My life is not my own.
I need to revel in the beauty of these moments. A time will come oh so soon when this baby won't want to cuddle with me. He won't want his mommy to fix everything for him. He already has a fierce independent streak.
I need to start writing a little bit daily, just to exercise that part of my being. I may not be able to write like I used to, but goddamnit, I can still write!